


Wash Out

by lellabeth



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Phil is a massive dork, The sky is blue, There are a lot of Clint feels, Tumblr Prompt, but more like laundry room AU, kind of college au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 00:07:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3875041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lellabeth/pseuds/lellabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he gets there, there’s already a body squeezed into the space he’d been coveting. Broad shoulders, threadbare shirt stretched tight across a built chest, strong jaw. Then the guy looks up, and Clint is convinced he has the worst luck in the fucking world. Cornflower-blue eyes are big behind thick glasses and Clint gets lost in them, just for a second.</p><p>Phil Coulson.</p><p>Of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash Out

**Author's Note:**

> from an anon tumblr prompt: “escaped to the laundry room to avoid hearing my room-mates having extremely loud sex only to find you’re here doing the same thing” with added feelings because, well, y'know.

“Yeah, do it hard! _”_ is all Clint hears before he picks up his laptop and blanket and rushes across the living room and to the front door, chanting  _nope_  all the while. There’s a sharp thud of a headboard hitting the wall just as he steps into the hallway and he fake-gags. He does  _not_  need to hear that shit.

It’s close to 2am on a Thursday morning in the dead of winter and the communal hall is freezing, the busted heater blowing out nothing but cold air. Clint wraps his blanket around his shoulders and trudges down the stairs to the laundry room, planning to set up with some Netflix against the warmth of a dryer.

Except when he gets there, there’s already a body squeezed into the space he’d been coveting. Broad shoulders, threadbare shirt stretched tight across a built chest, strong jaw. Then the guy looks up, and Clint is convinced he has the worst luck in the fucking  _world_. Cornflower-blue eyes are big behind thick glasses and Clint gets lost in them, just for a second.

Phil Coulson.

Of course.

He and Phil had dated once. Literally, one time. It had taken Clint months of watching the guy across the auditorium of their shared history class before he’d gathered the courage to ask him out. Phil was whip-smart and unfailingly kind, never sitting alone or having to beg for extra time to finish assignments. Phil had his shit together. He and Clint couldn’t have been more opposite if they’d tried.

Still, Clint had tried, really fucking tried as hard as he could to make that date work. He’d held Phil’s chair out for him, asked him about his major and his hometown and said all the right things. And then Phil had asked him the same and Clint had stupidly believed he got to have something good in his life, just this once, and so he’d laid out all the shit in his past about his family and the circus and it all sounded even more tainted in contrast to Phil’s perfect life.

Phil had blinked and said in this weak voice, “So, guess you aren’t really the type to bring home to the parents, huh?”

Clint didn’t even disagree with him. He was used to being the boy from the wrong side of the tracks, only good enough for a couple of hours of fun, but he thought he’d seen something  _more_  in Phil. He thought he’d seen something more in himself.

He’d been wrong.

That was months ago, and he’s gone out of his way to actively avoid Phil since then.

“Clint, hi,” Phil says, tongue wetting his bottom lip, just a little. He is beautiful, and Clint hates him just that little bit more (which is to say, not much. Or at all.)

Clint just nods and turns around, wincing when he feels the swish of his blanket-cape against his thighs. Seems like he’s forever destined to make a fool out of himself when Phil’s around. He can’t think of anywhere else to go but he’ll sit in the snow if it’s a choice between that or staying here.

“Please wait,” Phil asks right before Clint steps out of the laundry room, and Clint feels himself still before he’s even thought to do so. He stays with his back to Phil, knowing his expression is hurt and embarrassed and so full of the same shame that curls sour in his gut. It seems stupid to be this cut up over one wrong date, but there had been  _months_  of exchanged glances and shy smiles between him and Phil before then. Months of Clint imagining that may he could grab onto this nice thing, just this once, maybe he’d get to keep it.

Having the date go bad felt like life’s way of telling him to quit hoping already.

“I really need to apologize to you.”

Clint’s eyes close. Pity makes him angry usually, but this just hurts.

“Not your fault I’m a fuck-up.”

Phil makes a sound, high-pitched and wounded. “You’re not a fuck-up, Clint. I made a mistake, a really big one, and I’ve been wanting to say sorry ever since.”

Clint knows that. Phil had left him multiple notes and his roommate had mentioned Phil stopping by a few times, but Clint had been too mortified to want to listen.

“A mistake?”

“I… Look, I really,  _really_  liked you, okay? You’re so gorgeous and smart and funny, and I was so busy trying to impress you that what you said took me completely off-guard and I didn’t know to react. I just defaulted to dork mode and tried to joke without thinking of how it sounded. It was cruel and insensitive, and I’m incredibly sorry if you were hurt. I’ve been upset with myself ever since.”

Clint swallows. “You weren’t exactly wrong.”

He hears rustling and feels a warmth behind him moments later, shivers at the hesitant press of Phil’s fingers against his shoulder. “I was. Anyone would be lucky to take you home.”

Phil’s fingers creep further up, toward the back of his neck, just the slightest brush against his skin. “Is this okay?” Phil asks quietly. It’s only the two of them in here, only the hum of machines to compete with, but the almost-whisper feels intimate. Like it’s just for Clint’s ears.

“Yeah,” Clint says back, heart in his throat as the rough pads of Phil’s fingers stroke against his nape. 

They stand like that for a few minutes, Phil’s fingers on his neck the only point of contact between them. Everything feels hazy in the half-light of the small laundry room, not quite real, like it’ll slip right through Clint’s hands if he doesn’t hold on tight.

“Would you go out with me, sometime? No poorly-timed jokes this go around,” Phil asks, voice fraught with nerves and something that sounds almost like longing.

“Yes.”

“Never thought I’d be glad for Jasper’s bedroom activities forcing me into the laundry room.”

Clint laughs, loud and free. “Bucky had someone over, too.”

Phil steps closer, a solid line of warmth right against Clint’s spine. Clint thinks it’s something he could get used to.

“Maybe we’ll have to pay them back sometime.” 

Clint turns around, looks at Phil’s hopeful expression, his shy smile and pink cheeks.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling back. “Maybe we will.”


End file.
